


There Once Was a Blacksmith's Wife

by indiefic



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2013-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-29 08:06:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/684711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indiefic/pseuds/indiefic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story in which Rumplestiltskin has a conversation just like a previous conversation.  Except for the fact that it’s all different.  <i>Or</i>, the story in which Rumplestiltskin gets called on his accounting and ends up being the other man.  <i>Or</i>, that story where Belle is not an innocent and she’s just so fucking done with this shit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There Once Was a Blacksmith's Wife

**Author's Note:**

> I fully admit that this fic was a bit rushed in order to have it up for Valentine's Day. Any and all mistakes and questionable plot (or lack thereof) choices are mine and mine alone.

**CHARACTERS:** Rumplestiltskin / Belle; mentions of Belle/Other

 **TIMELINE:** Set in the Enchanted Forest four years after the events of Skin Deep.

 

***

“Why are you so miserable?” Rumplestiltskin demands, teeth bared, chest heaving with the force of his barely contained rage.

“Because I never loved him!” she yells. 

Stunned by her own words, Belle clamps her hand over her mouth, blinking at him. How exactly it came to pass that she’s standing in her parlor yelling at a man she hasn’t seen in four years, she’s not even certain. And yet, it seems typical.

For his part, Rumplestiltskin seems capable of doing little more than blinking either. Long, painful moments pass before he sighs and turns, clasping his hands behind his back as he looks out the window. As Belle well knows, the scene beyond the precious pane of glass is exceedingly mundane. There is a small yard with several skinny chickens pecking at grubs. The lane beyond is well traveled and deeply rutted. It’s plain to see that many horses and wagons used to make their way to this well kept little cottage on the edge of town - or rather to the smithy’s forge located out back. But it’s been many months since anyone last stopped.

“I can’t be happy with this life simply because you would find it convenient,” she says, more exhausted than sullen.

He turns his head, but doesn’t actually look over his shoulder at her. “It has nothing to do with my convenience,” he says.

“It has everything to do with your convenience,” she counters. “It always has.”

He does turn now, and look at her with an irritated expression.

“You named _me_ as your price for saving my village,” she says. “Why would you do that if not because you found it convenient to toy with people?” She doesn’t wait for his answer as she continues. “You threw me out of your castle and your life when I ceased to be convenient, when your feelings for me became something you couldn’t count and quantify and contain in one of your little flasks.”

His eyes are unreadable, but his jaw is clenched so tightly she can almost hear his teeth grinding together.

“And your husband?” he says, his words almost a growl. “Has he ceased to be convenient to you now that he’s lame and poor and unable to provide for his wife and son?”

Belle watches him, completely confused as to why Rumplestiltskin seems offended on Donal’s behalf. If anything, Belle would have thought he’d be smug or cruel, that he would mock Donal’s injuries and the sad state of Belle’s life with the former blacksmith.

Belle takes a deep breath, crossing her arms over her chest as she stares at the Dark One across the space of her small, shabby parlor. Most people would be terrified in her position, Belle knows. And yet, that roiling pit of nerves at the bottom of her stomach feels a lot more like anticipation and the guilt it brings than it does like fear.

“Donal has not ceased to be convenient to me,” she says plainly. “He means as much to me today as he did four years ago when I married him. His injury hasn’t changed that. And I don’t love him any less because it is now my turn to provide for our family.”

He flinches at her words, his lips pursing together. “You just said you never loved him.” He sounds angry, almost petulant.

“I misspoke,” she admits, her gaze dropping to the worn floorboards. She hadn’t meant what she said. Not literally. Not with the finality or coldness that was implied. It was just that he provoked her terribly. And viewed in a certain context, truth becomes a much more slippery concept than she is accustomed to wrangling with on a daily basis. In the intervening years since he tossed her out, she has forgotten what it is like to verbally spar with Rumplestiltskin, how carefully and precisely words need to be chosen.

“I love Donal,” she says quietly. “I have always loved Donal. He is a good, kind man. Easy to love.” She gives those words a moment to sink in, lifting her gaze to watch Rumplestiltskin’s sour expression. She continues, taking a deep breath, “But, I have never been _in_ love with him. Not once in the whole time that he and I have been together. We have friendship, companionship, a shared life. But it isn’t passion. We don’t share a love that could break a curse.”

His expression looks slightly mollified, but he does not speak.

She shakes her head, irritated at him. What is it that he wants from her? Why is he here? He is the one who cast her out. She never would have left him of her own volition. Point of fact, she tried to go back and he shunned her again. So she finally admitted defeat and settled down on these plains, far from both the Dark Castle and from her childhood home. Sheer stubborn will allowed her to forge a life with her husband and child. Not a happy life. Not a joyous life. But steady, stable, dependable - everything Rumplestiltskin is not. Or at least that’s how her life was until he burst into it again.

He stands in her rundown little parlor, like it hasn’t been years since he last spoke to her, like he has a right to make demands of her. He seems as irritated by her profession of love for her husband as he was outraged by what he perceived to be her lack of affection for the man. 

Rumplestiltskin is a perverse creature.

“Four years,” she says. “Four years. Why are you here?”

He smiles, but it is only a baring of stained teeth. “ _You_ ,” he says, pointing a blackened claw at her, “called _me_ , dearie.”

She takes a step closer to him, her hackles rising. She despises it when he calls her dearie. Almost as much as she despises that damn dragonskin coat and the horrible scaled jerkin. She knows why he says the words, why he wears the reptile skin. He’s trying to distance himself from her, _while standing in her parlor_ for gods’ sake. Coward! He wants to be here, but he wants to pretend he doesn’t. Her teeth grind together.

She takes a deep breath, glaring at him. She could throw him out. This is her house, after all. But if he’s a coward, then she must be as well. Because under her very real anger and irritation and no small amount of bitterness, there is an undeniable joy in seeing him again. She’s been wracked with guilt for weeks about it, but there it is. Belle has _longed_ for the Dark One to barge into her life, despite all her heartache. 

“ _Donal_ called you,” she clarifies. Precision. Specificity. Those are the tenets by which he lives. “To beg help for our son. Weeks ago. That deal is done.”

His lips purse together and he looks away in a gesture that is not quite sheepish. Her words are true, of course. _She_ did not summon him. Point of fact, she did not see so much as a glimpse of him those weeks ago when Rye was so ill. She was careful to keep her distance - for all the good it did. She could no more escape her own longing than she could escape Rumplestiltskin’s notice.

“Thank you, by the way,” she adds quietly.

He shrugs. “It’s no matter. A small thing to cure a young one from a common malady.”

“My son’s health is not a small thing,” Belle says firmly. He needs to understand the gravity of her words. Nothing in this world is more precious to her than her son. She was relieved when Rumplestiltskin heeded Donal’s call and offered assistance with no complaint. But if Rumplestiltskin hadn’t helped them, Belle would have done anything necessary, made any deal with anyone or anything powerful enough to save Rye. She is truly grateful to have not been forced into that situation.

“Thank you,” she says again. 

Solemnly, he nods.

She watches him, but he looks away and won’t meet her gaze. “You didn’t take payment,” she says. She waits, but he does not respond. “You know every tick in your ledger,” she continues, “and I suspect that we’re not even.”

His head snaps up and he looks at her.

“You owe me,” she says with a dark smile. “Don’t you?”

He frowns, but doesn’t speak.

“What math did you use?” she asks, stepping closer. “How much have you decided that you owe me for breaking my heart? How many favors will you bestow before our account is settled?”

He swallows thickly. “Belle … I …” He falls silent.

She takes another step. The parlor is small and now they’re only an arm’s length apart. “How much was it worth to you to ruin me?”

He looks stricken and for a moment, she almost feels sorry. Almost. But it’s been four years since he last deigned to speak to her and she’s had countless nights to steel her heart.

“Belle,” he says, his voice timid, “no one need ever know what happened between us. I would never - “

She holds up her hand, silencing him and shaking her head. “Leave it to you to be literal,” she says wryly. She sighs. “I actually wasn’t talking about my maidenhead, but thank you,” she says bitterly, “for assuring me that you will never admit to lying with me. It’s the profession that every girl longs to hear from her lover.”

He looks horrified. “Belle, let me expl - “

A sharp sound from her silences him and she purses her lips together. “I was being figurative about you ruining me.” 

Inching closer, she invades his personal space. He won’t meet her gaze, but he doesn’t move away. She knows that takes serious effort on his part. He doesn’t welcome physical contact from anyone, even her, and for a moment she can’t help but remember the joy she used to take in chasing the old monster around his own castle. 

She leans in toward him, licking her lips and marshalling her courage. Four years of separation from her True Love, four years of a companionable but ultimately passionless marriage, have given her not so much bravery as frantic recklessness. He was right, she is miserable. Miserable and lonely and absolutely terrified of a lifetime of more of the same. She won’t pretend to be happy. Not even to spare the man she loves. But it doesn’t mean that she won’t fight to make her own happiness. 

“I meant that you ruined me for another man’s touch.”

His eyes immediately dart to hers, rather in spite of himself, she thinks.

She forces a bright smile on her face. “My husband is an appealing man,” she says plainly, as if Rumplestiltskin isn’t quite aware of Donal’s appearance. “Even injured,” she adds. “He is tall and broad chested with a handsome face and a kind heart.”

Rumplestiltskin’s sour look returns. “And a ruined back.”

She rolls her eyes at him and then leans in conspiratorially. “I am odd. You know as much already. I’m bookish. Strange. But I’m not a cold hearted woman,” she says. “Nor am I a nun. I am a woman with needs.” She smiles tightly. “You know that as well.”

She studies his face, thinking he looks rather greener than normal as he averts his gaze. “So,” she says with forced lightness, “on those desperate, lonely nights, when I long for a lover’s touch, I drink a bottle of wine by myself. And then I douse all the lights - _all_ of them. I need darkness. Always darkness.” She stops and takes a deep breath. “And then, under the covers of the bed my husband and I share, I allow kind, handsome Donal to touch me. Only then, with the dark and the drink clouding everything.” 

She pauses for a moment, but of course, he says nothing. So, she forges ahead. “And _if I_ ’m drunk enough and _if_ it’s dark enough, then sometimes I can successfully pretend that his skin isn’t smooth and pink, that his teeth aren’t pearly white, that his eyes aren’t the same clear blue as the spring sky.” 

She, ever so lightly, braces her fingertips against his chest, arching up on tiptoe so that her lips almostbutnotquite brush his ear as she whispers, “And when he’s inside me, I pretend it’s you. Your cock giving me pleasure. Sometimes it works. Sometimes I can believe. Those are the only nights I ever come.”

He groans, quite involuntarily, she’s sure, and reaches out, his hands catching her hips and pulling her flush against his body. Her breath catches and she bites down on her bottom lip, her eyes fluttering shut with a potent mix of excitement and lust. She can feel him, hard against her belly and she’s already wet for him. She’s been on edge for weeks, sick with anticipation and longing since he swooped in to save her most precious gift.

“I’ve read every account I could find of True Love’s kiss,” she says, breathless, her fingers digging into the rigid material of his coat. “And none of them said anything about lying together.”

“ _Belle_.” It’s somewhere between a whine and a groan and her pulls her harder against his body.

“Please,” she begs. “Please. Don’t make me pretend. Love me. _Lie with me_. Give me the pleasure my husband can’t.”

He turns, pulling her along and pinning her to the wall. His breathing is ragged and she can feel the moist puffs of his breath against her temple. She pushes at his coat until he finally takes pity on her and shrugs out of it. Wasting no time, she buries her face against his neck, her teeth scraping against his glittering skin.

He hisses, thrusting against her, pressing her back against the rough plaster wall. She pulls at him, urging him to do more. Then it is he, surprisingly, who buries his fingers in her hair, holds her still and claims her mouth with abandon. She moans and her excitement ratchets up another notch as she feels him respond to the needy sound. He nips and bites at her lips and it doesn’t occur to her to mourn the loss of her timid, careful lover who kissed her so tentatively before the spinning wheel. Not when this is the alternative, her True Love burning for her touch, setting her aflame with his touch.

She doesn’t know - or truthfully care - how he found a way to kiss her without succumbing to the magic that would undo his curse. Despite all the pain and time, she does not doubt that he is her True Love, that she is the same for him.

***

They lie together on the bed, quiet but not exactly comfortable. Side by side, she on her back and he on his front, they touch languidly. Both of them are sated for now, but uneasy, as if it could all go wrong in the blink of an eye. His right arm lies across her stomach, his right leg is nestled between hers and his face is half buried in Donal’s pillow. Sighing, Belle runs her fingertips over the exposed flesh of his forearm. She’s not surprised the moment is awkward, fragile. It’s never been any different for them.

She stares at the ceiling, knowing he is watching her. Every now and then he inches closer, touches her just a bit more possessively. Belle knows she should be wracked with guilt - that she will be wracked with guilt. She just betrayed her husband in his own bed. But for now, all she knows is that this is the first time she’s felt alive in as long as she can remember.

She looks down at his arm, his leg, watching the way his skin changes color in the light as he moves. He’s too thin. Not that he’s ever been overly robust. But he’s thinner, more lean muscles and tendons than before. He smells different. Not bad. But different, vaguely antiseptic and she knows he drinks too much. With his constitution, she tries not imagine either the quantity or quality of the spirits he has been imbibing. Her nurse used to caution her to not ask questions unless she wanted the answer. Those were wise words. Belle sought to ease her own pain with Donal and then Rye. She is not shocked Rumplestiltskin turned to drink.

“I love you.” She says it because she needs to say it as much as she needs him to hear it.

His arm wraps around her waist, tightening and pulling her to him as he rests his head on her shoulder, his lips near her collarbone. Turning her head, she presses a kiss to his brow. He sighs and his grip loosens.

“I’m not leaving Donal,” she says. “Not now. Not like this.”

He goes very still and she lies there, trying to prepare herself for any number of possible reactions. Against her shoulder, she can feel the muscles in his jaw tighten.

“You don’t love him,” he finally says.

“Not like I love you, no,” she acknowledges. “But he wanted me when you didn’t. I owe him more than abandoning him. Rye loves him so much.”

“Owe him?” he muses, one of his claws tracing an idle pattern on her belly. “And you repay him by fucking me in his bed?”

She turns her head and looks at him until he finally lifts his eyes to meet her gaze. Smiling a tight, self-deprecating smile she says, “I had the hubris to think that I could marry Donal and be happy with him. And now we’re all going to pay.”

He blinks at her, but the expression in his eyes is more sad than accusing with a surprising amount of guilt. He reaches up, wiping away the tear that rolls down her cheek. Blinking quickly, she turns her head and once again stares at the ceiling.

“I never should have let you go,” he says in a near whisper.

“No,” she says, shifting, turning her body so they are stretched out on their sides, front to front. She reaches out, cupping his cheek in her hand. “But I made a bad situation worse. And all I know now is that I can’t tear apart my son’s family.”

He watches her for a moment and then covers her hand with his own, guiding it to his lips and pressing a hard kiss into the center of her palm. “What are we to do then?” he asks in a weary, sing-song voice.

“I don’t know,” she admits in a whisper. “But I can’t lose you again.”

He shakes his head, his eyes locked on hers. “Never,” he concurs. “Never again.”

***

End Chapter

**Author's Note:**

> This is intended to be the first piece in a much larger universe. It will skip around different timeframes, including Storybrooke.


End file.
